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While casting about for a way to convey my overall impression of San Juan Yachts' new 40 FB (Fly Bridge), I kept coming back to my good buddy Don. Some years ago he and I had dinner in a waterfront eatery in Panacea, Florida, and our conversation eventually got 'round, as it usually does, to a favorite topic, my beloved trawler Betty Jane. "She's quite simply a work of art, that little boat," said Don, giving the restaurant's ceiling a brief but thoughtful look. "She's one of those things that by its very nature uplifts, brings joy."
Don's remark was genuine. He's a straight shooter on boat stuff. And I've often been reminded of that dinner, especially at those mysterious times when the normal course of events slows or stalls for a moment, or two or three. You know, like when you turn around to take one last look at your boat before leaving the marina on a Sunday. Or when you're overtaken with silence in a piney boatyard where she's propped on jack stands, her teak caprails glistening in the sunlight.
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More to the point, though, I was reminded of Don's remark as I strolled down one of the docks at the Bahia Mar marina in Fort Lauderdale many months later. It was big-time windy, albeit warm and clear, and I was in a pleasant mood, what with a sea trial and some dockside maneuvering of San Juan's brand-new, $1.1-million 40-footer in the offing.
Then I caught my first glimpse of her, parked stern-to in a slip across the way from a bunch of roughneck charterboats. My cheery lope slowed to a crawl, and the phrase work of art bubbled unbidden from the depths of my unconscious and floated there for a bit.
The 40's 'glass work reflected light in a dappled sort of way. Her color scheme offered a delectable contrast of off-white creaminess and deep, dark, polyurethane-painted blue. An ineffable characteristic set her apart from the other vessels, old and young. She rocked gently—she's comparatively narrow, after all—and tugged alluringly at the lines secured to her starboard side.
I've never been one to let moss grow on the ol' backside. So I cranked the 40's twin 480-hp Yanmar 6LY3A-ETP diesels as soon as I'd come aboard with the PMY test gear. "You wanna handle 'er from the lower station or topside?" asked San Juan's Randy McCurdy, leaning against the dinette table on the port side of the pilothouse. I turned from the nifty start/emergency-stop engine switches at the lower helm and pointed upwards. "Visibility's fine here," I replied, "but it'll be better on the flying bridge...wind's blowin' pretty sporty today."
I settled into one of two cushy Stidd helm seats on the bridge and waited while McCurdy tossed our lines and jumped back aboard. When I got his all-clear from the cockpit, I clicked the starboard Teleflex Morse KE-4 electronic engine control into forward for a moment to gauge the response. The 40 eased ahead, undeterred by the 15-knot gusts pressuring her port bow. "Hmm," I whispered, "that was rather satisfying."
I tried a couple more clicks. The detents in the KE-4 were perfect, engine response was oomphy but not overly so, and the visibility aft was excellent. As the 40's transom cleared a concrete piling astern, I twin-screwed her to starboard and eased away with the wheel centered, gears only. Her balletic performance reminded me of something a guy once said to me while robustly twin-screwing his refurbished Bertram 31: "She'll turn on a dime and give you a buck's worth of change."
The same sense of playful abandon overtook me at the end of the fairway. Our test boat's indifference to the wind and her agility at the behest of a mere gear change put me in the mood to swing to port and starboard a few times, then rotate robustly, just for the heck of it. McCurdy came topside while this was going on, slipped into the passenger's seat from over the back, and knowingly said with a grin, "Play all you want, Bill."
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